J.R.R. Tolkien Snubs a German Publisher Asking for Proof of His “Aryan Descent” (1938)

J R R Tolkien

As you’d expect from a man who had to cre­ate, in painstak­ing detail, all the races that pop­u­late Mid­dle-Earth, J.R.R. Tolkien had lit­tle time for sim­ple racism. He had espe­cial­ly lit­tle time for the high­est-pro­file sim­ple racism of his day, the wave of anti-Jew­ish sen­ti­ment on which Adolf Hitler and the Nazi par­ty rode straight into the Sec­ond World War. His first nov­el The Hob­bit, pre­de­ces­sor to the Lord of the Rings tril­o­gy, first appeared in 1937, a time when the sit­u­a­tion in Europe had turned omi­nous indeed, and would get far ugli­er still. It did­n’t take long after the book’s ini­tial suc­cess for Berlin pub­lish­er Rüt­ten & Loen­ing to express their inter­est in putting out a Ger­man edi­tion, but first — in obser­vance, no doubt, of the Third Reich’s dic­tates — they asked for proof of Tolkien’s “Aryan descent.” The author draft­ed two replies, the less civ­il of which reads as fol­lows:

25 July 1938
20 North­moor Road, Oxford 

Dear Sirs,

Thank you for your let­ter. I regret that I am not clear as to what you intend by arisch. I am not of Aryan extrac­tion: that is Indo-Iran­ian; as far as I am aware none of my ances­tors spoke Hin­dus­tani, Per­sian, Gyp­sy, or any relat­ed dialects. But if I am to under­stand that you are enquir­ing whether I am of Jew­ish ori­gin, I can only reply that I regret that I appear to have no ances­tors of that gift­ed peo­ple. My great-great-grand­fa­ther came to Eng­land in the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry from Ger­many: the main part of my descent is there­fore pure­ly Eng­lish, and I am an Eng­lish sub­ject — which should be suf­fi­cient. I have been accus­tomed, nonethe­less, to regard my Ger­man name with pride, and con­tin­ued to do so through­out the peri­od of the late regret­table war, in which I served in the Eng­lish army. I can­not, how­ev­er, for­bear to com­ment that if imper­ti­nent and irrel­e­vant inquiries of this sort are to become the rule in mat­ters of lit­er­a­ture, then the time is not far dis­tant when a Ger­man name will no longer be a source of pride.

Your enquiry is doubt­less made in order to com­ply with the laws of your own coun­try, but that this should be held to apply to the sub­jects of anoth­er state would be improp­er, even if it had (as it has not) any bear­ing what­so­ev­er on the mer­its of my work or its sus­tain­abil­i­ty for pub­li­ca­tion, of which you appear to have sat­is­fied your­selves with­out ref­er­ence to my Abstam­mung.

I trust you will find this reply sat­is­fac­to­ry, and 

remain yours faith­ful­ly,

J. R. R. Tolkien

I have in this war a burn­ing pri­vate grudge  against that rud­dy lit­tle igno­ra­mus Adolf Hitler,” Tolkien wrote to his son Michael three years lat­er, by which time the war had reached a new height. “Ruin­ing, per­vert­ing, mis­ap­ply­ing, and mak­ing for ever accursed, that noble north­ern spir­it, a supreme con­tri­bu­tion to Europe, which I have ever loved, and tried to present in its true light.

He had already faced Ger­man forces in com­bat dur­ing his ser­vice in World War I, and had almost became one of World War II’s code­break­ers after the British For­eign Office’s cryp­to­graph­ic depart­ment brought the pos­si­bil­i­ty to him in ear­ly 1939. He did not, in the event, par­tic­i­pate direct­ly in the con­flict, but he did leave behind an uncom­mon­ly elo­quent paper trail doc­u­ment­ing his stance of unam­bigu­ous antipa­thy for the Nazis and their ide­ol­o­gy.

For more such fas­ci­nat­ing per­spec­tives vouch­safed to his­to­ry through the mail, do have a look at Let­ters of Note: An Eclec­tic Col­lec­tion of Cor­re­spon­dence Deserv­ing of a Wider Audi­ence, the brand new book from the site of the same name. Tolkien’s let­ter above comes from it, as do many of the illu­mi­nat­ing mis­sives we’ve fea­tured here before — and, with­out a doubt, those we’ll con­tin­ue to fea­ture in the future.

Want to down­load a Tolkien audio book for free? Start a 30-day free tri­al with Audible.com and you can down­load one of his major works in unabridged for­mat. You can keep the book regard­less of whether you con­tin­ue with their great pro­gram or not. There are no strings attached.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

“The Tolkien Pro­fes­sor” Presents Three Free Cours­es on The Lord of the Rings

Dis­cov­er J.R.R. Tolkien’s Per­son­al Book Cov­er Designs for The Lord of the Rings Tril­o­gy

C.S. Lewis’ Pre­scient 1937 Review of The Hob­bit by J.R.R. Tolkien: It “May Well Prove a Clas­sic”

Dis­cov­er J.R.R. Tolkien’s Per­son­al Book Cov­er Designs for The Lord of the Rings Tril­o­gy

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Take a Virtual Tour of the Dictionary Shakespeare May Have Owned and Annotated

 

shakespeare dictionary

You sure­ly heard plen­ty about Shake­speare’s birth­day yes­ter­day. But did you hear about Shake­speare’s bee­hive? No, the Bard did­n’t moon­light as an api­arist, though in his main line of work as a poet and drama­tist he sure­ly had to con­sult his dic­tio­nary fair­ly often. The ques­tion of whether human­i­ty has an iden­ti­fi­able copy of such an illus­tri­ous ref­er­ence vol­ume gets explored in the new book Shake­speare’s Bee­hive: An Anno­tat­ed Eliz­a­bethan Dic­tio­nary Comes to Light by book­seller-schol­ars George Kop­pel­man and Daniel Wech­sler. In their study, they reveal that they may have come into pos­ses­sion of Shake­speare’s very own copy of Baret’s Alvearie, a pop­u­lar clas­si­cal quote-laden Eng­lish-Latin-Greek-French dic­tio­nary the man who wrote King Lear would have found “the per­fect tool, a hon­ey-combed bee­hive of pos­si­bil­i­ties that may not have formed his way of think­ing, but cer­tain­ly fed his appetite and nour­ished his selec­tion.” He would have, at least, if indeed he owned it. Some sol­id Shake­speare schol­ar­ship points toward his own­ing copy of Baret’s Alvearie, but did he own this one, the rich­ly anno­tat­ed one these guys found on eBay?

Experts haven’t exact­ly stepped for­ward in force to back up their claim. Plau­si­ble objec­tions include, as Adam Gop­nik puts it in a (sub­scribers-only) New York­er piece on this Alvearie in par­tic­u­lar and human­i­ty’s desire for Shake­speare­an arti­facts in gen­er­al: “the hand­writ­ing just does­n’t look like Shake­speare’s,” “since Shake­speare wrote Eliz­a­bethan Eng­lish, any work of Eliz­a­bethan Eng­lish is going to con­tain echoes of Shake­speare,” and, of all pos­si­ble anno­ta­tors of this par­tic­u­lar phys­i­cal book, Shake­speare “is a prime can­di­date only because we don’t know the names of all the oth­er bird-lov­ing, inquis­i­tive read­ers who also liked their dabchicks and their French verbs.” Still, in a strik­ing act of open­ness, Kop­pel­man and Wech­sler have made their — and Shake­speare’s? — Alvearie avail­able for your dig­i­tal perusal on their site. You have to reg­is­ter as a mem­ber first, but then you can draw your own con­clu­sions about Kop­pel­man and Weschler’s dis­cov­ery — or, as even they call it, their “leap of faith.” Over­en­thu­si­as­tic words, per­haps, but sel­dom do either suc­cess­ful anti­quar­i­an book deal­ers or ded­i­cat­ed Shake­speare fans lack enthu­si­asm.

via The Atlantic

Relat­ed  Con­tent:

Dis­cov­er What Shakespeare’s Hand­writ­ing Looked Like, and How It Solved a Mys­tery of Author­ship

What Shake­speare Sound­ed Like to Shake­speare: Recon­struct­ing the Bard’s Orig­i­nal Pro­nun­ci­a­tion

Read All of Shakespeare’s Plays Free Online, Cour­tesy of the Fol­ger Shake­speare Library

Free Online Shake­speare Cours­es: Primers on the Bard from Oxford, Har­vard, Berke­ley & More

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

How British Codebreakers Built the First Electronic Computer

It was only a mat­ter of time before the folks at Google Cul­tur­al Insti­tute wan­dered down the road in Moun­tain View to vis­it the Com­put­er His­to­ry Muse­um. Togeth­er they’ve tak­en on a slim lit­tle sub­ject, Rev­o­lu­tion: The First 2000 Years of Com­put­ing

Unlike the best Cul­tur­al Insti­tute exhibits (the fall of the Iron Cur­tain and the daz­zling array of oth­er art and his­to­ry col­lec­tions come to mind) this one doesn’t do enough to lever­age video to bring the mate­r­i­al to life. It’s a breezy lit­tle tour from the hum­ble (but effec­tive) aba­cus to punched cards, mag­net­ic discs and the dawn of minia­tur­iza­tion and net­work­ing.

But noth­ing about how the Inter­net devel­oped, lead­ing to the Web and, now, the Inter­net of Every­thing?

I’ll admit that I learned a few things. I hadn’t heard of the design-for­ward Cray 1 super­com­put­er with its round tow­er (to min­i­mize wire lengths) and bench to dis­crete­ly hide pow­er sup­plies. The Xerox Alto came with con­sumer friend­ly fea­tures includ­ing a mouse, email and the capac­i­ty to print exact­ly what was on the screen. The unfor­tu­nate acronym for this asset wasWYSI­WYG (What You See Is What You Get).

I had also nev­er heard about the Utah teapot, a pic­ture of a gleam­ing white ceram­ic urn used for 20 years as the bench­mark for real­is­tic light, shade and col­or in com­put­er-gen­er­at­ed images.

“>http://youtu.be/amRQ-xfCuR4

More inter­est­ing, and up to the Cul­tur­al Institute’s stan­dards, is the exhib­it built in part­ner­ship with the Nation­al Muse­um of Com­put­ing in Buck­ing­hamshire, Eng­land. It’s a fas­ci­nat­ing piece of his­to­ry, focus­ing on Hitler’s efforts to encrypt mes­sages dur­ing the war and stump the Allied forces. He com­mis­sioned con­struc­tion of a super-sophis­ti­cat­ed machine (not Enig­ma, if you’re think­ing of that). The machine was called Lorenz and it took encryp­tion to an entire­ly new lev­el.

“>http://youtu.be/knXWMjIA59c

British lin­guists and oth­ers labored to man­u­al­ly deci­pher the mes­sages. Attempts to speed the process led to devel­op­ment of Colos­sus, the world’s first elec­tron­ic comuter. The project was kept secret by the British gov­ern­ment until 1975.

Kate Rix writes about edu­ca­tion and dig­i­tal media. Fol­low her on Twit­ter.

H.G. Wells Interviews Joseph Stalin in 1934; Declares “I Am More to The Left Than You, Mr. Stalin”

wells and stalin

From the 20/20 point of view of the present, Joseph Stal­in was one of the 20th century’s great mon­sters. He ter­ri­fied the Sovi­et Union with cam­paign after cam­paign of polit­i­cal purges, he moved whole pop­u­la­tions into Siberia and he arguably killed more peo­ple than Hitler. But it took decades for the scope of his crimes to get out, most­ly because, unlike Hitler, Stal­in stuck to killing his own peo­ple.

In ear­ly 1930s, how­ev­er, Stal­in was con­sid­ered by many to be the leader of the future. That peri­od was, of course, the nadir of the Great Depres­sion. Cap­i­tal­ism seemed to be com­ing apart at the seams. The USSR promised a new soci­ety ruled not by the oli­garchs of Wall Street but by the peo­ple — a soci­ety where every­one was equal.

H.G. Wells inter­viewed Stal­in in Moscow in 1934 for the mag­a­zine The New States­man. Wells was an avowed social­ist and one of the left’s most influ­en­tial authors. His first nov­el, The Time Machine, is essen­tial­ly an alle­go­ry for class strug­gle after all. The inter­view between the two is fas­ci­nat­ing.

Wells opens the piece by stat­ing that he speaks for the com­mon peo­ple. While that point is debat­able — Stal­in calls him out on that asser­tion – Wells does speak in a man­ner that is read­i­ly under­stand­able. Stal­in, in con­trast, speaks in flu­ent Polit­buro. The bland­ness of his speech, choked with Com­mu­nist boil­er­plate, seems designed to make the lis­ten­er tune out. But then he drops lit­tle bon mots into his mono­logues that hint at the vio­lence he has unleashed on his coun­try. Take this line for instance:

Rev­o­lu­tion, the sub­sti­tu­tion of one social sys­tem for anoth­er, has always been a strug­gle, a painful and a cru­el strug­gle, a life-and-death strug­gle.

It’s a chill­ing line. Espe­cial­ly when you con­sid­er that at the time of this inter­view, Stal­in was just start­ing to launch his first wave of polit­i­cal purges and he was plot­ting to assas­si­nate his main polit­i­cal rival Sergei Kirov.

As the inter­view unfolds, you can imag­ine Wells grow­ing increas­ing­ly frus­trat­ed by Stalin’s nar­row, dog­mat­ic view of the world. The Sovi­et leader, as Wells lat­er wrote in his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, “has lit­tle of the quick uptake of Pres­i­dent Roo­sevelt and none of the sub­tle­ty and tenac­i­ty of Lenin. … His was not a free impul­sive brain nor a sci­en­tif­i­cal­ly orga­nized brain; it was a trained Lenin­ist-Marx­ist brain.”

At sev­er­al points in the inter­view Wells chal­lenges Stal­in: “I object to this sim­pli­fied clas­si­fi­ca­tion of mankind into poor and rich,” the author fumes.

And when Stal­in doesn’t agree with Wells that the Cap­i­tal­ist sys­tem was on its last legs, the author actu­al­ly chides him for not being rev­o­lu­tion­ary enough. “It seems to me that I am more to the Left than you, Mr. Stal­in; I think the old sys­tem is near­er to its end than you think.” Now that’s chutz­pah.

In the end, the inter­view presents a duel­ing ver­sion of the future of the left. Wells believed, in essence, that the Cap­i­tal­ist world only need­ed to be reformed, albeit dras­ti­cal­ly, to achieve eco­nom­ic jus­tice. And Stal­in argued that Cap­i­tal­ism had to be torn down com­plete­ly before any oth­er reform could take place.

In spite of their dif­fer­ences, Wells left the inter­view with a pos­i­tive impres­sion of the Sovi­et leader. “I have nev­er met a man more fair, can­did, and hon­est,” he wrote.

Wells died in 1946 before the worst of Stalin’s crimes became known to the out­side world. Stal­in died in 1953.  Fol­low­ing a stroke, his body remained on the floor in a pool of urine for hours before a doc­tor was called. His min­ions were ter­ri­fied that he might wake up and order their exe­cu­tion.

You can read the entire inter­view between H.G. Wells and Stal­in on The New States­men’s web­site here.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Joseph Stal­in, a Life­long Edi­tor, Wield­ed a Big, Blue, Dan­ger­ous Pen­cil

How to Spot a Com­mu­nist Using Lit­er­ary Crit­i­cism: A 1955 Man­u­al from the U.S. Mil­i­tary

Leon Trot­sky: Love, Death and Exile in Mex­i­co

Learn Russ­ian from our List of Free Lan­guage Lessons

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow.

Free: British Pathé Puts Over 85,000 Historical Films on YouTube

British Pathé was one of the lead­ing pro­duc­ers of news­reels and doc­u­men­taries dur­ing the 20th Cen­tu­ry. This week, the com­pa­ny, now an archive, is turn­ing over its entire col­lec­tion — over 85,000 his­tor­i­cal films – to YouTube.

The archive — which spans from 1896 to 1976 – is a gold­mine of footage, con­tain­ing movies of some of the most impor­tant moments of the last 100 years. It’s a trea­sure trove for film buffs, cul­ture nerds and his­to­ry mavens every­where. In Pathé’s playlist “A Day That Shook the World,” which traces an Anglo-cen­tric his­to­ry of the 20th Cen­tu­ry, you will find clips of the Wright Broth­ers’ first flight, the bomb­ing of Hiroshi­ma and Neil Armstrong’s walk on the moon, along­side footage of Queen Victoria’s funer­al and Roger Bannister’s 4‑minute mile. There’s, of course, footage of the dra­mat­ic Hin­den­burg crash and Lind­bergh’s dar­ing cross-Atlantic flight. And then you can see King Edward VIII abdi­cat­ing the throne in 1936, and the even­tu­al Pearl Har­bor attack in Decem­ber 1941 (above).

But the real­ly intrigu­ing part of the archive is see­ing all the ephemera from the 20th Cen­tu­ry, the stuff that real­ly makes the past feel like a for­eign coun­try – the weird hair­styles, the way a city street looked, the breath­tak­ing­ly casu­al sex­ism and racism. There’s a rush in see­ing his­to­ry come alive. Case in point, this doc­u­men­tary from 1967 about the won­ders to be found in a sur­pris­ing­ly mono­chrome Vir­ginia.

Here’s a film about a tech­no­log­i­cal inno­va­tion that curi­ous­ly didn’t take off — an amphibi­ous scoot­er. The look of regal dig­ni­ty on the driver’s face as his vehi­cle moves down the Thames is price­less.

In an ear­ly exam­ple of a polit­i­cal bloop­er, there’s this footage from 1942 of Bess Tru­man try­ing valiant­ly to smash an unyield­ing bot­tle of cham­pagne against the fuse­lage of a brand new bomber.

And then there’s this news­reel from 1938 on the wed­ding between Bil­ly Cur­tis, a 3’7” night­club bounc­er and his 6’4” bur­lesque star bride. The jaun­ty, spec­tac­u­lar­ly un-PC voiceover should prob­a­bly be filed under “things were dif­fer­ent then.”

If you have sev­er­al weeks to kill, you can watch all of the videos here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rare Film: Claude Mon­et at Work in His Famous Gar­den at Giverny, 1915

The Weird World of Vin­tage Sports

The World’s First Mobile Phone Shown on 1922 Vin­tage Film

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow.

Rare Audio: Albert Einstein Explains “Why I Am an American” on Day He Passes Citizenship Test (1940)

Most Amer­i­cans by birth, myself includ­ed, have lit­tle rea­son to think about the process of attain­ing our high­ly sought-after nation­al­i­ty. But it only takes a momen­t’s reflec­tion on the mil­lions upon mil­lions of immi­grants who came to the Unit­ed States in the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry alone to get us pon­der­ing not just the how but the why of Amer­i­can cit­i­zen­ship. It’s become more rel­e­vant than ever today, when we need not look far to notice how many trans-nation­al projects, careers, cou­ples, and fam­i­lies have sprung up around us. Not only do a wider vari­ety of peo­ple come to Amer­i­ca today, but more Amer­i­cans base them­selves else­where than ever before. For some seri­ous thoughts on chang­ing nations, have a lis­ten to the radio clip above, a brief inter­view with Ger­man-born the­o­ret­i­cal physi­cist (and inter­na­tion­al­ly known icon of sci­ence and intel­li­gence) Albert Ein­stein. Last year, we fea­tured footage of Ein­stein’s 1933 speech in praise of indi­vid­ual lib­er­ty at Lon­don’s Roy­al Albert Hall. He gave it not long after the Nazis took pow­er in his home­land;  just four days lat­er, he set sail for Amer­i­ca and nev­er looked back.

This broad­cast went out in 1940, not long before the Unit­ed States joined the Sec­ond World War, as part of I’m An Amer­i­can, a joint effort of the NBC net­work and the Immi­gra­tion and Nation­al­iza­tion Ser­vice to invite “a num­ber of nat­u­ral­ized cit­i­zens to talk about the Amer­i­can cit­i­zen­ship which they have recent­ly acquired, a pos­ses­sion which we our­selves take for grant­ed, but which is still new and thrilling to them.” Ein­stein, an artic­u­late if still thick­ly accent­ed speak­er of Eng­lish, calls this rare media appear­ance a “self-evi­dent duty,” and prais­es the egal­i­tar­i­an­ism and coop­er­a­tive spir­it that inclines Amer­i­ca toward “the devel­op­ment of the indi­vid­ual and his cre­ative pow­er.” The famed sci­en­tist’s inter­locu­tor, Sec­ond Assis­tant Sec­re­tary of the Depart­ment of Labor Mar­shall E. Dimock, asks him about the rea­sons he appre­ci­ates his new cit­i­zen­ship, why he prefers to live in Amer­i­ca giv­en his “inter­na­tion­al out­look,” and whether he feels Amer­i­ca still lives up to its grand promise of lib­er­ty. Whether you believe Amer­i­ca has improved or gone down­hill since that era, I think you’ll find in Ein­stein’s proud respons­es a reminder that it often takes a for­mer out­sider to clear­ly see the qual­i­ties that have giv­en the coun­try its place in his­to­ry.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Albert Ein­stein on Indi­vid­ual Lib­er­ty, With­out Which There Would Be ‘No Shake­speare, No Goethe, No New­ton’

Albert Ein­stein Called Racism “A Dis­ease of White Peo­ple” in His Lit­tle-Known Fight for Civ­il Rights

Lis­ten as Albert Ein­stein Reads ‘The Com­mon Lan­guage of Sci­ence’ (1941)

Ein­stein for the Mass­es: Yale Presents a Primer on the Great Physicist’s Think­ing

Albert Ein­stein Hold­ing an Albert Ein­stein Pup­pet (Cir­ca 1931)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

How the CIA Turned Doctor Zhivago into a Propaganda Weapon Against the Soviet Union

ZhivagoTitlePage

Human­i­ty has long pon­dered the rel­a­tive might of the pen and the sword. While one time-worn apho­rism does grant the advan­tage to the pen, most of us have enter­tained doubts: the sword, metaphor­i­cal­ly or lit­er­al­ly, seems to have won out across an awful­ly wide swath of his­to­ry. Still, the pen has scored some impres­sive vic­to­ries, some even in liv­ing mem­o­ry. Take, for exam­ple, the CIA’s recent­ly revealed use of Boris Paster­nak’s nov­el Doc­tor Zhiva­go as a pro­pa­gan­da weapon. Repressed in Paster­nak’s native Rus­sia, the book first appeared in Italy in 1957. The fol­low­ing year, the British sug­gest­ed to Amer­i­ca’s Cen­tral Intel­li­gence Agency that the book stood a decent chance of win­ning hearts and minds behind the Iron Cur­tain — if, of course, they could get a few copies in there. A CIA memo sent across its own Sovi­et Rus­sia Divi­sion sub­se­quent­ly pro­nounced Doc­tor Zhiva­go as pos­sessed of “great pro­pa­gan­da val­ue, not only for its intrin­sic mes­sage and thought-pro­vok­ing nature, but also for the cir­cum­stances of its pub­li­ca­tion. We have the oppor­tu­ni­ty to make Sovi­et cit­i­zens won­der what is wrong with their gov­ern­ment, when a fine lit­er­ary work by the man acknowl­edged to be the great­est liv­ing Russ­ian writer is not even avail­able in his own coun­try in his own lan­guage for his own peo­ple to read.”

That eval­u­a­tion comes from one of the over 130 declas­si­fied doc­u­ments used by Peter Finn and Petra Cou­vée in their brand new his­to­ry of this act of real-life lit­er­ary espi­onage, The Zhiva­go Affair: The Krem­lin, the CIA and the Bat­tle Over a For­bid­den Book. You can read an in-depth arti­cle on some of the events involved in this oper­a­tion — the CIA’s print­ing of both hard­cov­er and minia­ture paper­back Russ­ian-lan­guage edi­tions, the not-so-clan­des­tine dis­tri­b­u­tion of copies at 1958’s Brus­sels Uni­ver­sal and Inter­na­tion­al Expo­si­tion, the CIA’s unex­pect­ed alliance with the Vat­i­can in this mis­sion, the inept prob­ing by Sovi­et “researchers” — at the Wash­ing­ton Post.

You can also watch a CBS This Morn­ing clip on the book just above. Dra­mat­ic though this “Zhiva­go Affair” sounds, it came as nei­ther the first nor last Amer­i­can use of cul­ture as a means of desta­bi­liz­ing the Sovi­et Union. We’ve even pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured two oth­ers: secret­ly-fund­ed abstract expres­sion­ist paint­ing, and Louis Arm­strong’s 1965 East Berlin and Budapest con­certs. Cold War Amer­i­ca may have had the sword, in the form of its vast nuclear arse­nal, pol­ished and ready, but clear­ly it retained a cer­tain regard for the pen — and brush, and trum­pet — as well.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Louis Arm­strong Plays His­toric Cold War Con­certs in East Berlin & Budapest (1965)

How the CIA Secret­ly Fund­ed Abstract Expres­sion­ism Dur­ing the Cold War

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Old Books Bound in Human Skin Found in Harvard Libraries (and Elsewhere in Boston)

Practicarum-Cover-and-Spine

For at least a decade now, the “death of print” has seemed all but inevitable. Amidst all the nos­tal­gia for print­ed lit­er­a­ture, it’s easy to for­get that mass-pro­duced books and media, and a lit­er­ate pop­u­la­tion, are fair­ly recent phe­nom­e­na in human his­to­ry. Books—whether print­ed or hand-copied—had a totemic sta­tus for thou­sands of years, giv­en that they were kept under the pro­tec­tion of an edu­cat­ed elite, who were among the few able to read and inter­pret them. Even after the age of print­ing, books were rare and hard to come by, large­ly too expen­sive for most peo­ple to afford until the advent of paper­backs.

A gris­ly reminder of the book’s sta­tus as an almost mag­i­cal object sur­faced in Harvard’s rare book col­lec­tion a few years ago. In 2006, librar­i­ans dis­cov­ered at least three vol­umes bound in human skin—and as trav­el site Road­trip­pers reports, “in one case, skin har­vest­ed from a man who was flayed alive.” Grue­some as all this seems, the prac­tice of skin-bind­ing was appar­ent­ly not the sole province of ser­i­al killers:

As it turns out, the prac­tice of using human skin to bind books was actu­al­ly pret­ty pop­u­lar dur­ing the 17th cen­tu­ry. It’s referred to as Anthro­po­der­mic bib­liop­e­gy and proved pret­ty com­mon when it came to anatom­i­cal text­books. Med­ical pro­fes­sion­als would often use the flesh of cadav­ers they’d dis­sect­ed dur­ing their research.

The book sup­pos­ed­ly made of flayed skin is a Span­ish law text from the sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry titled Prac­ti­carum quaes­tion­um cir­ca leg­es regias (above). Despite an inscrip­tion nam­ing the deceased and claim­ing his skin as the bind­ing, this vol­ume has actu­al­ly just been iden­ti­fied as sheepskin—according to a Har­vard Law Library blog post from yesterday—“thanks to a tech­nique for iden­ti­fy­ing pro­teins that was devel­oped in the last twen­ty years.” Spec­u­lates the Law Library post:

Per­haps before it arrived at HLS [Har­vard Law School] in 1946, the book was bound in a dif­fer­ent bind­ing at some point in its his­to­ry. Or per­haps the inscrip­tion was sim­ply the prod­uct of someone’s macabre imag­i­na­tion.

Nev­er­the­less, oth­er human skin-bound books exist—as far as librar­i­ans and sci­en­tists can deter­mine. For­mer direc­tor of libraries for the Uni­ver­si­ty of Ken­tucky Lawrence S. Thomp­son claims that the prac­tice dates as far back as a 13th cen­tu­ry French Bible and became more com­mon in the 16th and 17th cen­turies. A 1933 Crim­son arti­cle men­tioned anoth­er skin-bound book in a col­lec­tion of minia­ture books, includ­ing this graph­ic detail: “removal of 20 square inch­es of skin from his back failed to impair the health of its donor, who is still alive and in the best of con­di­tion.”

Anoth­er skin-bound vol­ume, which Thomp­son calls “the most famous of all anthro­po­der­mic bind­ings,” resides across the riv­er from Har­vard at inde­pen­dent library the Boston Athenaeum. Called The High­way­man: Nar­ra­tive of the Life of James Allen alias George Wal­ton (above), the book is a mem­oir of the tit­u­lar out­law. The author, reports the Crim­son, “was impressed by the courage of a man whom he once attacked, and when Wal­ton was fac­ing exe­cu­tion, he asked to have his mem­oir bound in his own skin and pre­sent­ed to the brave man.” Thumb through (so to speak) a dig­i­tal copy of Walton’s 1837 mem­oir above, and imag­ine being the recip­i­ent of such a gift.

via Road­trip­pers

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

Medieval Cats Behav­ing Bad­ly: Kit­ties That Left Paw Prints … and Peed … on 15th Cen­tu­ry Man­u­scripts

How a Book Thief Forged a Rare Edi­tion of Galileo’s Sci­en­tif­ic Work, and Almost Pulled it Off

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

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